Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Her lips parted but no denial came.

Instead, Quinn’s thumb moved once, slow, across his chest, directly above the hurried rhythm beneath it — and Park was suddenly, viciously, aware of every place her body was and was not touching his.

"I have wondered," she admitted softly.

Park forgot every clever response he had ever owned.

The admission was quiet and there was nothing uncertain about it.

Quinn had not mumbled it by accident or allowed him to drag it from her. She had chosen to give it to him — and the small deliberate weight of that choice.

He laughed under his breath, nervous now despite all his earlier confidence. "The ridiculous part is that I’m not even thinking about what you might do to me for being this inappropriate. I’m wondering how much I’d endure before you completely broke me."

’And you would. You would break me open like a walnut in a hand and hum while you did it. And I would thank you afterwards.’

Her eyes narrowed faintly. The warmth in them ruined the warning.

"And my heart too," Park added.

"Your confidence is becoming a medical concern."

"There you are."

"What?"

"Trying to hide again."

"Perhaps I enjoy watching you work for your answers."

That was bolder; far bolder than anything she had given him inside the car.

Park stared at her for a heartbeat. Then he released one of her hands and allowed his arm to move, carefully, deliberately, around her waist.

Both of them froze.

His palm settled against the fitted fabric at the small of her back, gentle but unmistakably intimate — the exact placement no bodyguard could pretend was professional contact, and no woman could pretend she had failed to feel land.

Through the wool he could feel her: the warmth of her, the shape of her, the small unmistakable dip where waist became hip. His fingers spread instinctively against her, and hers, still hooked in the front of his shirt, tightened by a fraction in answer.

Quinn’s breath caught.

For all her experience, discipline, and effortless command, she had clearly never allowed a man to hold her this closely.

Park could tell from the sudden stillness that passed through her, from the way her spine — that ferocious perfect spine — softened by exactly one degree the instant his palm settled against her back.

Park was hardly better.

Across two lives, he had never held anyone who felt this dangerously good in his arms.

She was warm beneath his hand and softer than the severe grey lines of her jacket had ever pretended.

The contrast between the disciplined tailoring and the yielding body beneath it sent a rush through him so sharp that every clever line vanished for several seconds. He could feel the faint press of her breasts against the lower slope of his chest through their layers of fabric, and that — the was a gentle, blameless, entirely accidental pressure — was doing more to him than any deliberate thing had done in a long time.

Neither moved.

Then Quinn released a long, slow breath that travelled the last inch between their mouths and touched his lips before it faded.

She did not step away.

Instead, the hand resting over his heart slid upward until her fingers reached his collar. She straightened the fabric he had loosened earlier — though the task did not require her to stand quite so close, nor to allow her knuckles to brush the base of his throat, nor to let her fingertip stray for the smallest fraction of a second across the pulse jumping under the skin at his jaw.

Park watched her face.

Quinn finished adjusting his collar. Then left her hand there.

"Your heart is still racing," she murmured.

"You haven’t moved away."

"Neither have you, Quinn, neither have you."

That small challenge gave him enough courage to draw her closer, until barely any space remained between them. His arm stayed around her waist without tightening into a restraint, leaving the choice to remain entirely hers.

Quinn answered by placing her free hand against his shoulder and closing the final inch herself.

Park’s thoughts briefly left the premises.

She was not merely allowing him to hold her now. She had chosen the closeness. And the quiet confidence of that decision — a woman deciding, at close range, that she wanted to be exactly this near to him — was almost more seductive than any blush he had managed to earn.

He lifted the hand still pressed against his chest. Turned it gently until her knuckles faced him. His thumb moved over them in one slow deliberate stroke.

"I’ve always loved your hands," he admitted.

Quinn looked genuinely surprised.

"They’re strong. But you’re careful with them. Even when you were checking my wound, you touched me as though you were afraid I might hurt." His thumb passed over her knuckles again, slower. "No one looking at you would expect that kind of gentleness."

’And no one, would expect what those hands would look like unlaced from those gloves, either. On my hips. Or on the back of my head. Or on my throat.’

"You’ve spent a great deal of time looking at me."

"Far more than was healthy."

"And hiding it very badly, apparently."

"I thought I was subtle."

"You were quiet. That is not the same thing."

Park smiled slowly. "So you noticed?"

She might’ve realized the old Park had a crush on her.

Quinn did not answer directly. She merely turned her hand inside his until their palms met and allowed her fingers to settle between his.

That was answer enough.

Park raised his gaze to hers. "And your eyes..."

He paused, searching for something honest rather than impressive.

"They’re arresting. Deep, watchful, and impossible to lie to. Whenever you look directly at me, I feel as though you can see every cowardly thought I’ve ever hidden and you’re simply waiting to find out whether I’ll finally become brave enough to admit it."

Quinn’s breathing had grown quieter.

Park released her hand only long enough to lift his fingers toward her face.

He stopped beside her cheek without touching.

The humor left him completely.

"Tell me to stop."

Quinn looked directly into his eyes.

She had all the strength required to remove his arm from her waist, put several meters between them, and restore the professional distance they had maintained for years. He knew it. She knew it. Every muscle in her body was capable of dispatching him across the room, and every neuron of hers had been trained to make that dispatch look effortless.

Seconds passed.

She gave no command.

Instead, Quinn tilted her face — barely — slightly toward his waiting hand.

It was almost no movement at all. It destroyed the last excuse either of them might have used.

Park brushed a loose strand of dark hair away from her temple, letting the backs of his fingers trace, deliberately slow, across the warmth gathering beneath the surface of her cheek.

Her eyes closed for the briefest moment.

When they opened again, the composure was still there — but the woman beneath it was no longer pretending she felt nothing.

Park tilted his head, openly admiring her now. All apology gone.

"God, you blush beautifully."

"I am not blushing."

"You are turning pink beneath my hand. And it is doing extremely dishonest things to me."

"Perhaps your head injury affected your eyesight."

"It improved it. You’re even more beautiful this close."

Her gaze flickered toward his mouth before returning to his eyes.

He leaned nearer but stopped before their lips met — close enough that she could feel the question hanging in the small warm space between them.

"I’m serious about you," he whispered. His breath moved across her lower lip. "I don’t know what this becomes yet, and I know I’m asking you to cross lines you’ve spent years protecting. But I’m done pretending I don’t want things because wanting them frightens me."

His thumb moved lightly, slowly, over her cheek.

"I want something between us, Quinn. Something real. I’m willing to be patient, embarrass myself if you reject me repeatedly, and probably survive several threats against my life in the process."